


Steadfast Tin Soldiers

by NomDeGuerre



Series: Parallels [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen has issues and so does Evelyn, F/M, Lots of Angst, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, about everything, canon character death, life sucks in Thedas, that effing Grey Warden mission, you know which I'm talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomDeGuerre/pseuds/NomDeGuerre
Summary: The Inquisitor is haunted by the choices made at Adamant.  Cullen is haunted by his past as a Templar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this? All this angst? *waves hand at story* I disavow all responsibility for it. I blame Bioware and their sadistic plot. STOP MAKING ME HAVE FEELINGS, GAME.

What happens at Adamant strikes all of them hard.  Evelyn for obvious reasons, and Josephine because she regrets pretty much all loss of life, but Leliana and Cullen had histories with the order.  To see their betrayal (though, can it be called betrayal, when they believed what they did was in service to their oaths?) is a personal wound.  Cullen keeps thinking about the Wardens that had saved him in Kinloch, and saved the surviving mages from his pain and fear.  They had been noble, good.  And the Hero… she’d given her life to save Ferelden from the Blight.

Skyhold is very carefully quiet about what had happened, after the first set of soldiers had been yelled at by the Inquisitor for speaking poorly about the remaining Wardens.  Cullen hadn’t heard what they’d said, exactly, but he does hear Evelyn’s response.  He’s striding toward the War Room when he hears the rasp of her voice, louder than he’s ever heard it.  The damage done to her throat makes it so she can’t yell, not really, or the words get lost under the rasp.  But she’s clearly done her best to sound angry now.

“How dare you,” she says, and Cullen stops dead in his tracks, head swiveling to find her and whoever has earned her ire.  She’s standing near the entrance to the great hall, bristling in front of three soldiers.  Despite her being a head shorter than all three of them, and in casual clothes to their full armor, they cower in the face of her displeasure.  “How  _ dare  _ you say that.  The Grey Wardens have saved Thedas several times over.  In the Blights, yes, but also every year, every day, between them.  A Warden’s job does not just end with the death of an Archdemon.  Theirs is an oath for  _ life _ .  They spend every day from their Joining to their death fighting Darkspawn where-ever they may appear.  Every last bit of them is devoted to protecting  _ us  _ from Darkspawn and Blights.  Even when we forget about them between Blights.  Even when we put them aside like quaint relics of past ages.”

One of the soldiers mumbles something, but Cullen is too far to hear.  Evelyn does, and it does nothing to cool her temper.  “Grey Wardens are allowed to do  _ literally anything  _ to prevent Blights.  They can conscript the most vile criminals into their ranks, even in the very moment that criminal’s head is on the block.  They can take mages from their Circles, nobles from their castles.  They are allowed to ignore nations’ borders, freely traveling to where they are needed.  Their treaties allow them to call on aid from those nations.

“The Wardens  _ believed  _ what they were doing would end all Blights, forever.  That, if they were being Called to the Deep Roads to die, they might as well ensure that their final stand takes out the remaining slumbering Old Gods, before they are awakened as Archdemons.  And in following with their order’s oaths and  _ our  _ allowances, they were willing to do  _ anything  _ to do so.  Even summoning demons.  The Grey Wardens weren’t desperate to save their own lives, they were desperate to  _ do their duty _ .  They were sacrificing  _ everything  _ to save Thedas from the Blight, as they had promised.”  Evelyn’s voice is thick with emotion, and Cullen can feel his heart beating faster, sorrow and guilt tightening his throat in response to her words.  “Corypheus was  _ using  _ them.  They believed their army, their demons, would be used to fight their way through Darkspawn in the Deep Roads.  They didn’t know he would steal them, turn them on the people they intended to protect.   _ It wasn’t their fault _ .”

Everyone listening in shifts awkwardly, guiltily at her vehemence.  Evelyn seems to draw her anger back, leaving sadness.  Her voice gentles, a little.  “It wasn’t their fault.  But it is their responsibility.  And now those that survived are trying to fix it.  What they did was misguided, foolish, but it was not done in malice.  They are not our enemies.  Corypheus is.  And he would be  _ pleased  _ to see us so divided.”

The hall is dead silent as she turns and marches toward the door that leads to Josephine’s office and the War Room.  Cullen catches up to walk at her side in a couple strides, inclining his head slightly when she glances up at his approach.

“Inquisitor,” he says softly, holding the door for her.  Her mouth is set in a firm line, and there is such a weight behind her eyes.  She nods at him, but doesn’t say anything.  Perhaps she can’t.

Cullen lets her precede him into the room—she gives a jerky little nod to Josephine, who sits as usual at her desk—and out into the hall that leads to the War Room.  Cullen lingers, and once she’s out of hearing, murmurs to Josephine: “There was just an incident in the great hall.  Some soldiers were speaking ill of the Wardens, and the Inquisitor took it upon herself to correct their views.  Some of our Orlesian and Ferelden visitors were witnesses.”

Josephine’s eyes flare wide and she glances after Evelyn.  “Oh dear.  You didn’t happen to notice…”

Cullen shakes his head.  “I followed the Inquisitor and didn’t see much of their reactions; the shock of her words hadn’t quite worn off yet.  I can take care of the soldiers later, but perhaps you will wish to speak to the diplomats.”

“Of course,” Josephine says, rising at once.  “Thank you for alerting me, Commander.”

Halfway to the door, she hesitates, then half-turns.  “Perhaps you should… see to the Inquisitor?  If she is still upset…”

“Yes,” Cullen says, though he is not nearly so certain she’d appreciate comfort from  _ him.   _ They’d been doing better since he’d returned her phylactery, but he is reluctant to push the matter.  But Josephine simply nods, looking reassured, and leaves.  He hesitates, eyeing the door behind which the Inquisitor had disappeared.  Finally, with a sigh, he strides forward.

Evelyn is standing over the map table, hands curled into fists and pressed against the tabletop, head bowed as if she is intently studying the southern reaches of Orlais.  Cullen takes a few slow steps into the room.  “Inquisitor?”

Her shoulders hunch a little and she doesn’t respond.  Cullen lingers just inside the door, uncertain whether to approach.  As he watches, he sees a shiver ripple through her, and he steps a little closer.  “Inquisitor?”

He sees the curve of her cheek, but her height, and the fact that her head is bowed, mean he can’t see much of her expression.  He doesn’t realize she’s crying until she gives a wavering little sob, half-bitten-off, and two large tears plop down on the map.  She croaks a curse, jerking back from the table so no more fall on the maps, and extending a hand to carefully blot the saltwater away.  Cullen freezes a little, completely out of his depth.

Evelyn shakes with a couple silent sobs, hands scrubbing at her cheeks even as more tears fell to replace the ones wiped away.  Finally, she gives up, hands falling to hand in tight fists at her sides.  Very hesitantly, Cullen reaches out to touch her arm.  “Lady Trevelyan.  Are you…”

She catches his hand, holding it tight as she starts shaking and sobbing in truth.  Between wracking sobs, she gasps: “I didn’t want to kill them!”

Cullen’s heart sinks straight to his toes.  The Grey Wardens, Adamant Fortress.  It had been a nightmare, even more-so than the Red Templars, for whom nothing could be done but the mercy of a quick death.  Aside from the enthralled mages, the Grey Wardens were still thinking, still rational.  They could have reached a truce, had they been willing to listen.  Had they the time to try to use words.

He returns the clutch of her hand, and says: “You saved those you could.  Some listened, and allied themselves with us.”

Evelyn chokes out a raw laugh.  “And because I knew they would need a good leader, because Thedas needs Wardens, and the Wardens needed someone strong and good to lead them out of the shadow of what Corypheus and his Nightmare had done to them, I told Hawke to sacrifice himself so Stroud could return with us.  They asked me to choose between them.  Stroud said that this was the Wardens’ fault, so he should take responsibility, die for what his order had done.  But Hawke said the Wardens needed him, that Stroud was the highest-ranking Warden left in the west, that if anyone should die, it should be  _ him _ , for failing to kill Corypheus that first time.  They asked me to judge which of them was most useful, which deserved more to live.   _ And I did _ .”

Dear Maker, she will destroy herself like this.

Cullen twists and drops to one knee in front of her, maintaining his hold on her hand—it is unlikely he would have been able to extract himself from the vice grip of her fingers, anyway—and looks up into her face.  She looks shattered, and also mortified, staring at him with wide, watery eyes.

“I—” she croaks, now trying to pull her hand from his and turn away, hide her tears.

“My lady,” he says, holding on until she stills.  “It is the greatest burden of leadership to have to lead others to their deaths.  It never gets easier, and you will always question yourself.  Was there a better way?  Could I have saved them?”

She looks wounded, and like he is twisting the knife.  Cullen squeezes her hand, now cradled between both of his.  “Which is why we must always do our best by them.  And, Inquisitor Trevelyan, you have not betrayed your people.  What’s more, you act with honor and compassion toward even our enemies.  You recognized that the Wardens were not acting from malice, but from Corypheus’s machinations, and you acted on that knowledge.  So many more could have died at Adamant, but when you had the opportunity, you saved them.  You did everything you could have, and you saved what lives you could.  And Hawke… I knew him, a little.  He was not ignorant of the risks he undertook.  He would not blame you.”

He searches her face, trying to find some sign of how his attempt at reassurance—had he been too brusque, too soldierly? He had, hadn’t he, speaking to her like she’s a green recruit fresh from her first battlefield—had been received.  Tears still slip from her eyes, but she stares at him with such a desperate look that he thinks maybe she is hearing him, believing him.  The steady and intense gaze, however, makes him abruptly self-conscious, realizing how intimate their positions are.  He is kneeling in front of her, clasping her hand in his, staring up into her face as she curls over him in turn.  His posture stiffens a little, and his hands twitch.

The Herald takes a slow, shaking breath, and squeezes the hand under hers almost painfully tight.  She whispers: “Thank you.”

She steps back slowly, slipping her hand from his.  He stands just as slowly, folding his hands awkwardly on the pommel of his sword.

They are collected and standing easy at their usual places when Leliana and Josephine arrive.

* * *

Cullen sits at his desk and tries not to think about the small wooden box tucked inside one of the drawers.  His head is throbbing, his skin prickling uncomfortably under the rasp of his clothes, his stomach churning.

_ If you take it _ , the thought slides into his mind,  _ it will all go away. _

He squeezes his eyes shut.   _ If you take it, you’ll feel better.  One tiny sip, and your strength will return, your mind will clear… _

“Begone,” Cullen hisses, like the thoughts can be attributed to a demon and not his own fractured mind.  “Leave me!”

_ Just a taste… _

He feels the tremor start in his hands, and fists them together under his desk.  The candle at the corner of the desk flickers, throwing shadows across the piles of papers before him.  His mind swims, and he closes his eyes, swallowing hard against the wave of nausea.

_ Commander of the Inquisition, felled by simple weakness.  How can you lead like this? _

Cullen watches as his hands open the drawer and pull out his philter kit.  It lands on the desktop with a muted thump, looking smaller out in the open, but looming larger in his mind.  The wood is smooth with the wear of years of continued use, and the latch works smoothly—

He jerks his hands away from it, standing from the desk so quickly his chair scrapes loudly against the stone floor.  He turns away from the desk and the open kit, spearing his fingers through his hair, mouth twisting into a snarl.

_ I do not want this,  _ he thinks, nearly shouting the words into the silence of his mind.   _ I cannot _ —

He whirls, slams the box shut with a snap, drops it into its drawer, and storms out of the office.  A messenger nearly pitches off the battlements in shock when he throws the door open and stalks out, nearly hitting her.  “C-commander, ser!”

“Put it on my desk,” he snaps.  “And wait here.  I must speak with the Seeker; direct any who wish to see me to her.”

“Ser!”  Cullen has already turned and is halfway across the battlement, and doesn’t see the messenger salute.  His mind is howling maelstrom, his own personal Breach contained within him.   _ Complete with demons _ , he thinks with black humor.

Cassandra agrees readily enough to speak with him, but after they duck into the nearby blacksmithy and he tells her he wants her to find a replacement for him, she becomes annoyed.  And in turn, Cullen becomes angry.  “You promised to watch me, to—”

“I promised to watch, to judge the risks.  And  _ if  _ you were unable,  _ then  _ I would remove you from your position.  I cannot remove you for any lesser reason.  What do you think it would do to the Inquisition to lose its Commander now?”

“Should we wait until I make a mistake, until the delusions have me snapping at shadows and sending soldiers to fight imaginary enemies, until I start getting men killed?” Cullen snarls.  “I am telling you, I do not think I can do this any longer.  Either remove me from my office or I will begin to take my philter again.”

“You would throw away everything you have accomplished so easily?” Cassandra scoffs.

“Easy?” he says.  “You think this was  _ easy _ ?”

“I think you are stronger than this,” she says, eyes sharp on his face.  “I think you do not really want to give up.”

“So you won’t consider—”

“As I have said,  _ if  _ I judge you unable to fulfill your duties, then I will take action.  Do not assume that, if I have done nothing, I have not been watching.  I promised you that I would, and I have been.  However, I have not seen any reason to worry.”

“But neither have you been listening!” Cullen grits out.  “Is my concern so unimportant?  It is relentless; I can barely  _ think _ .  If I am unable to fulfill what vows I have kept, then nothing good has come of this.  Would you rather save face than admit—”

He cuts himself off as the door slowly creaks open, and a nervous-looking Inquisitor peeps around the jamb.  “Forgive me, I thought I heard…”

She hesitates and trails off, slipping fully into the smithy.  Her eyes dart between Cullen and Cassandra.  She’d heard them arguing, it seems.  Cullen burns with shame and a thousand other emotions.

“We will speak of this later,” he murmurs to Cassandra, then strides past the Inquisitor toward the door.

“Forgive me,” he says to her quietly, voice coming out more sorrowful than he had intended.  As he disappears through the door, he hears Cassandra grumble behind him:

“And people say  _ I’m _ stubborn.  This is ridiculous.”

Cullen flees her judgement, and the prospect of Evelyn’s.  He aches, his very bones ache with the echo of lyrium’s song, and he’s never been so tired in his life.  There is cold sweat on his brow, and a tremor in his hands, and he returns to his office and pulls out his philter kit once again.

It would be so easy.  He knows how to make it, could make it, even with his hands shaking like they are.  One measure of dried embrium flowers, ground up then mixed into a paste with a bit of water.  Scraped and dissolved in a unit of lyrium and diluted one to one with water.  The motions would be quick and practiced, familiar from sheer repetition, even after months of neglecting the ritual.

He could do it.  He still has his last unit of lyrium, given to him before he’d left Kirkwall and never consumed.  Cullen stares at the tools in his philter kit.

_ I should take it. _

_ I need it. _

_ I don’t want it! _

With a cry, Cullen hurls the box at the wall.  Narrowly missing the Inquisitor, who stands in the doorway.  “Maker’s breath!  I didn’t hear you, I—Forgive me!”

Cullen takes a step toward her, where she stands staring down at the wreckage of his kit, then stops himself.  He knows she becomes frightened, ill at ease, when he lets his temper show.  A raised voice at the war table has her paling.  A sharp gesture from a hand has her flinching.  And now he was…

“I apologize,” he says hollowly.  “I didn’t mean for this to… to interfere with my…”

The lyrium song still echoing in his bones washes loud for a moment, as if the lyrium unit now lying on the floor is protesting his callous treatment of it.  He groans, catching himself on the edge of his desk as his knees weaken.

“Commander?” she’s closer, and there’s concern plain on her face.  He lifts a hand to stop her, and straightens.

“I’m fine,” he bites out.  “I—”

He closes his eyes, breathing out sharply through his nose, trying to push down his frustration and anger at his damnable weakness.  He owes it to her, as the Inquisitor, to explain himself.  He opens his eyes and looks to her.  Despite her understandable fear of Templars, she has not retreated from him, has not lost that concerned wrinkle in her brow.  He tries to gentle his voice.  “I’d mentioned once that I no longer take lyrium.”

“Yes,” she says, pauses.  “You… You asked Cassandra to find you a replacement.  Is the withdrawal that bad?”

Cullen’s first instinct is to deny, but he’d just determined that he needs to tell her the truth.  He grits his teeth, and forces the reluctant words from his lips.  “I… the pain I can endure.  But it is not just the withdrawal.  The lyrium… It… it changes the way Templars dream, gives them more control over those brief sojourns into the Fade.  Off of it, well, I am once more subject to the random reflections the Fade projects of my mind and memories.  And I fear I have few pleasant memories.”

“Nightmares?” the Herald says softly.  “I understand.”

He imagines she does.  However, he needs her to  _ know _ , unequivocally.  “I was in Ferelden Circle during the Blight.  One of the senior enchanters went mad, unleashed demons and blood mages upon the tower.  Abominations.  I watched as the Templars—my  _ friends _ —were slaughtered, along with most of the mages.  I was tortured, for days.  They tried to break my mind.  I… How can you be the same person after that?”

Where he had been hesitant, the words pour out of him now, like poison from a lanced wound.  “Still.  I wanted to serve.  They sent me to Kirkwall.  I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what?  Her fear of mages ended in madness and bloodshed.  The Circle broke, innocent people died in the streets.  The city fell to chaos.  So many of the Templars did nothing, or worse than nothing, they fought for Meredith.  I tried to…”

Cullen shakes his head, asks her: “Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

There is nothing but empathy in her gaze.  “Cullen—”

Her uncharacteristic usage of his given name doesn’t even register.  “Don’t.  You should be questioning what I’ve done.  I thought this would be better, that slipping the Chantry’s leash would… give me back some control over my life… But these thoughts  _ won’t leave me _ .”

Restless, agitated, he paces back and forth in short, jerky strides.  “How many lives depend upon our success?  How many lives depend on  _ my  _ leadership, my tactics?  How can I issue orders, send men into danger, when my mind might be…”

A slashing motion of his arm, words coming, more, faster, angrier.  “I pledged myself to this cause.  I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry.  I should be taking it!”

Rage and frustration crest, and he punches the thick wooden side of one of his bookshelves.  A couple volumes tumble to the floor, and he snaps back to himself abruptly, the roaring in his head and heart vanishing abruptly to leave him feeling empty.  He closes his eyes.  “I should be taking it.”

“Cullen,” her voice is a whisper, rasp as soft as it ever got.  He can’t look at her.  Now, the fire gone from his veins, he feels only shame and bitterness.  He hears her take a step closer.  “Cullen.  This shouldn’t be an Inquisition decision, this should be  _ your  _ decision.”

His eyes open as he recognizes his own words.  She meets his gaze.  “Do you want to keep taking lyrium?”

“No,” he admits on a sigh.  It is a relief to say, and he can feel the tension across his shoulders abate a little.  And yet, can it really be that simple?  “But... these memories have always haunted me.  And if they become worse, if I can’t endure this—”

“You  _ can _ ,” she says, as forcefully as she had defended the Wardens just a fortnight ago.  She’s frowning now.  “You give yourself too little credit.”

He huffs a brittle laugh.  “Perhaps I will surprise myself, if only to live up to your lofty vision of me.”

“I think I see you quite clearly,” she says, the statement hitting him quite harder than it probably should.  He’s not a complicated man—forthright and terribly Fereldan, Dorian has described him—but there are nine years of his life that are filled with hurt and hate that he does not wish for her to see.  He cannot countenance hurting her with the angry, foolish things he’d said and done during that time.

“I…” he says, uncertain what exactly he wants to say.  He stops, clears his throat.

“You’re the commander the Inquisition needs.  You have lead our forces faithfully and effectively since the start.  There is not one person in Skyhold or abroad who can take issue with what you have done for us.  We all have faith in you, Commander.  You should have faith in yourself.”

“I want to be worthy of that faith,” Cullen says tiredly.

“You are,” she says with simple faith.  He almost believes.

* * *

With his head clearer the next day, and perfectly recalling how he’d lost hold of his tight control in front of the Inquisitor, Cullen is beset by embarrassment for how he’d acted.  She’d been kind and gracious, but his growling and snapping had probably frightened her, however well she’d hidden it.  He sends a messenger to her and waits nervously, pacing in his office until it feels too small and too dark and too close, and he escapes to the battlements just outside the west door.

She appears, not immediately, but pretty close to.  Cullen straightens from leaning on the parapet, swallowing dryly, throat clicking.  He glances at her, looks away.  “Inquisitor.  I wanted to thank you, for what you did—said—yesterday.  When you came to see me, I was… Well.  Your support is…  Maker, this was easier in my head.”

Evelyn slips up to the parapet and runs the fingers of her intact hand over the weathered stone.  Cullen had noticed how she keeps the maimed one at her side, mostly immobile, sleeve long enough to cover most of it.  Hiding.  It never fails to make something in his chest twist.  She speaks, having to lift her voice to be heard over the ever present mountain winds.  “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Is it always that bad?”  She looks at him with that little concerned wrinkle between her brows.

“The pain comes and goes,” he sighs.  “Sometimes I feel as if I’m back there.  I… It’s worse when I am already tired.  I should not have pushed myself so far yesterday.  My… my conduct was unprofessional and I apologize.”

“I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“And are you?  Alright?” Cullen blurts.  “I-I mean—”

“Well enough,” she says, lips quirking a little.  “I am frightened of facing Corypheus, of failing everyone.  But that is not a surprise.  I have always been a coward. ”

He’d meant the question about his behavior, not what they were up against, but he can’t leave this unaddressed.  “That isn’t true.”

They both look a little startled at the vehemence in his tone.  He recovers, continues: “Even if you are afraid, you have faced Corypheus.  You stood up to him.  You dropped a mountain on him.  Then you walked through a blizzard to return to us and continue fighting.  You lead us with courage and compassion.”

She’s staring at her feet, face flushed, and Cullen shuts himself up abruptly.  She gives a small, hoarse laugh.  “If you continue, my ego might become too big to bear.”

“I’m… You…”

Her eyes flick up, then back down.  “Thank you, Commander.”

“It’s nothing,” he says automatically, gripping the pommel of his sword like it’s a lifeline.  He startles a little when her fingers touch his vambrace lightly.  Staring at them, he marvels at how easily she lays her hand against the etched Sword of Mercy.

“It really isn’t,” she says.  He looks up at her.  The edges of the scars at her neck are slightly visible over the high collar of her jacket, but he barely notices them.  He stares at her eyes, and her lips.

_ Oh _ , he thinks, in sudden realization.   _ Oh no. _

* * *

Cullen had gone to the Chantry at thirteen, the age at which most are only beginning to discover their sexuality.  Some of the trainees had experimented with each other, sneaking kisses and caresses in shadows and silence, but fraternization is frowned upon in the trainee barracks.  One or two each year would be expelled for multiple infractions, their inability to withstand the temptations of the flesh taken as indications of weak will.  Templars needed to be strong willed, to resist demons and maleficar, their instructors would say sternly.

Despite having grown into an attractive young man, Cullen had never felt particularly inclined to break that rule.  He’d been too busy, at first, determined to master all his lessons.  There were few women in the Order, anyway, and none of his peers really enticed him in that way.  Ignoring that portion of himself had been easy, at least until he’d completed his Vigil and was given his first philter and assignment.

Solona Amell had been the first time he’d entertained any sort of romantic feeling, and though it was against the rules, he’d thought it safe enough to love her from a distance.   _ She’s too powerful, and too kind; she’ll never become a maleficar or an abomination.  _ _ He’d never have to choose between love and duty, which was the concern at the heart of the rules against mage/Templar relationships. _  And, in the end, he’d never had to.  Solona had been murdered by blood mages, instead, and Cullen had had every scrap of love, even the mere idea of romance, tortured from him by Uldred’s demons.

Whatever healing nearly a decade’s worth of time might have yielded had been negated by that time passing in Kirkwall.  Cullen had transferred to the shithole of a city with his wounds still metaphorically bleeding, and had been dropped straight into a new hotbed of abuse and suffering.  They say that Kirkwall used to be a major slave port for the Imperium, but Cullen still isn’t sure there’s anything past-tense about it.  The air of the Gallows had practically dripped desperation, the stone sweating bitterness.  The atmosphere nurtured only pain and hate, and that had been all Cullen had felt.

And now… Now he is a broken man, trying to be worthy of his continued life, at the least.  And there is another woman, too powerful, too kind, except he no longer thinks that any love is safe.  Even if they survive what is to come, he’s too damaged, his past—his  _ self _ —too inextricably twisted up with everything that had ever hurt her.

Even still, he looks at the Inquisitor, and aches.


End file.
